


Four Seasons

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drama, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-26
Updated: 2006-06-25
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8712982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: As seasons change, so do relationships.





	1. Chapter 1 - Summer and Autumn

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Four Seasons  
  
Author: Raina  
Archive: Nutters, inc.  
Paring: Sam/Dean  
Rating: Adult/NC-17  
Disclaimer: All things Supernatural belong to Kripke, the WB, etc. None of it belongs to me, which should be obvious given that neither of the boys is currently chained in our bedroom.  
Feedback: Always appreciated and gratefully gobbled up.  
Summary: As seasons change, so do relationships.   
Warning: Explicit Wincest. Not sure whether that's a warning or an enticement ;-)  
Spoilers: Pilot, Shadows, mostly.  
  
Thank yous: [ ](http://atlantean-angel.livejournal.com/profile)[**atlantean_angel**](http://atlantean-angel.livejournal.com/) for saving me by betaing, [ ](http://lea-ndra.livejournal.com/profile)[**lea_ndra**](http://lea-ndra.livejournal.com/) for enduring my whining about this fic, [ ](http://duchess-of-hell.livejournal.com/profile)[**duchess_of_hell**](http://duchess-of-hell.livejournal.com/) and [ ](http://cathybites.livejournal.com/profile)[**cathybites**](http://cathybites.livejournal.com/) for reading and liking.  
  
Notes: Up front, this is a mood piece. Those of you who know me from HP should be familiar with my preoccupation with the weather ;-).  
Also, it's my first foray into Dean-POV, so if you notice something that doesn't entirely work, please don't hesitate to point it out.   
  
  
*-*  
  
  
Summer  
  
The sun set ten minutes ago, but the sky hasn't yet lost the steely blue plunging into fiery red colour that makes the lines between earth and sky blur out here in the stony outskirts of the Arizona desert. It's hot, from the slight blur in the air to the metal heat of the car's hood under their butts. The light takes on an almost tangible quality, in the typical summer dusk that takes about an hour to fade. It's not quite dark, but not quite light either.   
  
The only thing even remotely cool is the beer in Dean's hand. Next to him, Sam sits on the hood, quietly staring at the horizon, sipping at his bottle occasionally. It's quiet out here; probably the reason Sam drove them here. Why is fine by Dean. As long as Sam's here, the beer's cool and nobody's bothering them, Dean could care less where they are.  
  
They don't talk and Dean's glad for it. He leans back against the windshield, for once unworried about shoes and the Impala's new glossy black paint job. Slowly, the light fades, leaving them in a warm, blanketing summer half-darkness. The first stars appear; soon there will be hundreds. It's one of the things Dean loves about their current digs. Fifteen minutes by car from the best fucking starry sky he's ever seen. The moon hasn't risen yet, but the light of the stars is enough to see by.   
  
Sam's sitting so close that Dean can feel the heat of his body through his thin jeans and T-shirt and can smell the sweat on him. They're not quite touching; only Sam's shoulder rubs against his when Sam lifts his arm to sip at his beer. Dean can feel the tension in Sam as if Sam was actually vibrating. His hand wanders to something in his jeans pocket and Dean doesn't need to hear the rustle of paper to know what it is and what it means.   
  
He knew it was coming. It doesn't make him hate it one bit less though.  
  
Sam stares at his hands gripping the bottle of beer. Expressive, long-fingered hands that held a gun when he was eight and killed when he was ten. It's something Dean would take away if he could, one of the many things, the stain of blood on his brother's hands. The thing Sam killed was evil; a creature of darkness, but taking a life was hard on Sam. He was always the more sensitive one with the thinner skin. Dean often asks himself where Sam got his skin, almost translucently pale sometimes, takes long to build calluses, soft and warm and perfect, except for his all too many scars. Maybe it's something their mother left him, together with his nightmares.   
  
"Dean?" Sam's voice sounds so close in the near-darkness of the star-lit dusk.   
  
"Yeah?"  
  
Sam leans back against the windshield and looks up at the sky, a wistful expression on his face.   
  
"You think there's actually something out there?"  
  
Dean follows his gaze to the stars.   
  
"Don't know. Can't say I ever thought about it." Truth is he doesn't care. The stars are beautiful, that's all that matters to him. Dean's not big on why.  
  
Sam is, though. "People just don't see a lot of stuff that's obviously there."  
  
Dean takes a sip of his beer and kind of wishes he hadn't given up smoking.   
  
"Well, sometimes they don't want to see stuff they don't know how to deal with."   
  
Sam turns his attention from the stars to Dean. "The stuff's still there, though."   
  
Dean's pretty sure they're not talking about aliens anymore.   
  
"Maybe they hope that if they ignore it, it'll turn out not to be true," he says, and he for one isn't talking about aliens anymore.  
  
Sam sighs and drops his head back onto the windshield.   
  
"It's true, Dean. And it's not going anywhere either."  
  
"No, but you are," Dean says, and he winces at the resentment in his own voice that makes Sam flinch.  
  
"We've been through this," Sam says, voice tightly controlled.  
  
Yes, they have, more than once. Nothing's changed. Nothing's changing. They've both made a decision the other one doesn't like. Dean sighs. "Yeah."  
  
There's nothing more to be said, really. Well, nothing they'll actually say to each other. They sit there quietly, shoulders touching, gazing at the stars as if they hold the answer to everything. The chirping crickets and the small sounds of insects are all that can be heard other than their breathing. A silence that's not exactly comfortable and yet familiar lies between them.   
  
Dean thinks of a few things to say, trying them out in his mind. _Don't go._ No, he won't start with this again. _Stay._ Variations on a theme. Actually saying the words would mean acknowledging the possibility that he'll wake up the day after next and Sam won't be there. It's something so unthinkable that Dean can't consider it. Until it actually happens, Dean has to think it physically impossible.  
  
He takes a deep breath to dislodge the panic hovering at the edge of his consciousness, and lets out a long burst of air, like a sigh.  
  
Sam turns to him, eyes unreadable in the darkness.   
  
"You all right?" he half-whispers.  
  
Dean nods. "Sure." His voice doesn't sound too steady, and Sam must've noticed, because he leans over, sets down his beer.   
  
"Dean," he whispers, but Dean stops him with a hand held up.  
  
"Don't," he says, voice rough, and his eyes are burning. "Please don't."  
  
Sam just takes Dean's protesting hand into his and entwines their fingers, palm to palm. With his other hand he takes Dean's beer away and sets it down, then swings a leg over Dean's and sits in Dean's lap, facing him.   
  
"Sammy," Dean whispers, trying to move away, but Sam traps his hands on the windshield next to Dean's head and leans in. His kiss tastes like beer and sweat and summer, like the burger from dinner and bitterness of fighting and stars. Dean sinks into it and loses his resistance in Sam's mouth. Sam's body is pressed against his from groin to collarbone, lanky warm and barely legal right there on his lap. His own personal heavenly purgatory. It's always been.  
  
Sam breaks the kiss and licks his lips, and Dean feels heat rise between them. He doesn't even try to get his hands out of Sam's grip. He knows that against this he is defenceless. Sam kisses him again, slowly, just a brush of lips against his, teasing. Then he coaxes Dean's mouth open with his tongue and slips inside, long, sensuous licks, and Dean moans, already undone.  
  
Sam lets go of Dean's hands, and Dean brings them up Sam's back, where his shirt is sticking to his skin with sweat. Dean peels it off and delves under it, touching Sam's sweat-slick skin greedily. Then his hands travel down to cup Sam's ass. The kiss gets more passionate, as Sam bites Dean's lips and makes small gasping sounds. Dean can feel himself harden and feels Sam's answering erection against his hip. "Sammy," he gasps.  
  
Sam moves back, panting, his eyes darkening with desire. "It's Sam," he corrects, then moves in to kiss Dean into dizzy submission, which Dean gives only too readily.  
  
Slowly, Sam kisses his way down Dean's neck, bites the pulse point softly, and mouths Dean's collarbone while working open the buttons of his shirt. Dean's hands roam over any part of Sam's body they can grasp, building tactile memory to add to Dean's extensive collection.   
  
Breaking away from Dean's skin, Sam pulls off his t-shit and Dean's shirt then kisses his way down Dean's chest. He licks over a nipple, teases it with his teeth. Dean moans, his head falling back against the windshield, his back plastered to it. God this feels good, Sam's skin against his, Sam's weight on him rubbing against his cock, making sparks of arousal travel through his entire body.   
  
Sam sits back, flushed, hair already messy, and looks at him, just looks, traces his features with his gaze. Dean thinks that the stars have nothing on Sam's eyes. He doesn't say it of course; it's maudlin and stupid to even think it. Sam does that to him sometimes though.   
  
Then the touching starts. Sam's fingers draw lines of pleasure over his body, touching his face, running along his nose, his cheekbones, his neck, ears, through his hair, over his back, his sides, his ribcage, making a map of Dean's skin. Dean arches into every touch, every brush of Sam's fingers. Offering himself up for the taking, and as ever, Sam accepts the invitation.  
  
He slides down Dean's body like water, and Dean wants to drown in this sensation. Long, nimble fingers make short work of the buttons on his jeans and they both work together to get Dean out of them. The metal of the car is warm against Dean's naked ass and legs, but Sam sitting on his thighs is warmer, and Sam's mouth blowing warm air over Dean's cock is just plain hot. Then Sam slithers down Dean's body, bites his hipbone, kisses his belly, licks over the hair leading down to his crotch before he takes Dean's cock in his mouth. It's all Dean can do not to arch his hips and ram his dick into Sam's mouth all the way when Sam's lips close around him. His head falls back and he moans helplessly as Sam licks over his shaft, slowly, the feeling of mindless pleasure shuddering through his entire body.  
  
Sam starts to suck on the head of Dean's dick, and Dean loses all sense of time and space, his entire world centring on Sam and the wet heat around his cock. He moans Sam's name helplessly, fingers threading in Sam's hair.   
  
Then the heat is gone and Dean looks up, dazed, to see Sam kneeling over his cock, gloriously naked, lean muscles chiselled in cool marble under the cold starlight. Sam steadies himself with one hand; holds on to Dean with the other as if he's scared that Dean will run away if he lets go. As if Dean was even capable of moving right now.  
  
Slowly, holding Dean's eyes, Sam lowers himself on Dean's cock, swallows Dean's moans with his lips on Dean's, muffling his own gasps of pleasure against Dean's mouth. Sam's whole body shudders against Dean, and Dean holds on tightly, runs soothing hands over Sam's back, chest, arms, ass, easing the intensity of the sensation.   
  
"I got you," he whispers, knowing exactly that it's the other way around. Dean thinks he's going to choke and die on desire as Sam just takes him all the way inside, and Dean knows that's where he'll stay for the rest of his life, no matter where Sam goes.   
  
Sam looks at Dean, eyes almost black with reflected stars, and runs caressing fingers over Dean's features. Dean's aware that Sam is trying to say a couple of things Dean's not sure he's ready to hear, among them goodbye. But that thought is difficult to hang on to as Sam starts to move. Dean grabs Sam's hips, needing something to hold on to. It starts slow, sweat making movement slick, and Sam holds on to Dean's shoulders for leverage. They move together now, slowly building a rhythm, and Dean wraps a hand around Sam's cock and starts to stroke. The Impala rocks softly with them, the warm metal almost a living entity below them, keeping them between the earth and sky. Sam grabs Dean in a kiss, and their movements grow faster, hands grab less gently, gasps and moans accelerate. Breath is a luxury, and Dean's heart feels like it's going to leap out of his chest any moment.   
  
The rhythm accelerates, grows harder, and they're fucking now, abandoned, too far gone to be gentle, and Sam throws his head back, exposing his throat, and Dean bites it, too tempting to resist. Sam moves on top of him, impossibly beautiful, sweat-glistening skin and working muscles, and Dean can only look and feel and be completely, entirely overwhelmed by pleasure. His hand around Sam's cock tightens as his teeth sink into Sam's skin, and Sam shudders against him, as he comes with a loud, desperate moan that sounds a lot like Dean's name. It's all it takes for Dean's world to contract and implode as he comes apart inside Sam.   
  
For a few moments, all Dean can see are small white dots, until he realises they're actually the stars, and he's lying back against the windshield, Sam sprawled on top of him, naked, sweating, and shivering ever so lightly.  
  
He tries to move and can't. He feels slightly dizzy, as if his world has re-arranged itself around him, which in a way he guesses it has.   
  
They don't move or talk for a long time. Sam's head rests on Dean's chest, over his heart. Dean's hands stroke through Sam's hair, over his skin. They keep each other warm in the slowly creeping cold of the desert.   
  
Finally they get dressed again, and sit on the hood, drinking their stale beers. They say little, inconsequential nonsense Dean forgets the minute he speaks or hears it. Skirting around the things that need to be said.   
  
Dawn breaks too soon, rearing its head in a steely grey on the horizon. The stars fade, and Dean hates them for it. Slowly, Sam gets off the hood. "It's time," he whispers, his voice rough with emotion.  
  
Dean nods. He knows it's time. He just wishes he could stop time right here, right now. He knows that once the sun has risen, nothing will ever be as it was before.   
  
They get into the car, and this time Dean's driving. They get coffee and muffins but don't touch them. Dean tries to find his resentment and can't. Sam looks as if he's trying the same thing.  
  
They wait together in the too-bright light of early morning. The day's heat is already tangible, though it's still cool.   
  
The bus arrives, and Dean helps Sam get his things on board. There's still no sign of their father. Dean's relieved and angry at the same time.   
  
There's nothing left to do but say goodbye. It's the one thing Dean can't say.   
  
"Call when you get there," he murmurs, then hugs Sam so tightly he thinks he might break a few bones. Sam hugs him back just as tightly. If it were Dean's choice, he wouldn't let go. But he knows he has to.  
  
"I will," Sam whispers. "Bye, Dean." The two words hold a world of regret.  
  
Dean swallows and almost tears himself out of the hug.   
  
"Take care, Sammy," he says, ruffles through Sam's hair, then turns around and leaves. It takes every ounce of strength he has not to turn around and fling himself at Sam, beg him to stay, or get on the bus and go with him, and fuck Dad, and fuck hunting, and fuck everything.   
  
He does neither, though. He keeps walking and doesn't turn around. He doesn't watch Sam's bus leave. He doesn't, he can't, he won't say goodbye.  
  
*-*  
  
Autumn  
  
It's cold in northern California in October. Something Dean didn't quite take into account when he first came here. California to him is beaches and palm trees, not fog from San Francisco Bay and ancient trees shining in bright autumn colours. When the wind is right, though, you can smell the ocean.   
  
Dean doesn't like to admit it, but Stanford's actually pretty nice. It's got palm trees for one. It's also got old, stone-washed buildings, huge parks, fresh-faced college girls, terrible cafeteria food, people reading in window seats, in other words it's a very Sammy kind of place. Which ironically makes Dean both very at home and really uncomfortable. It's ridiculous, but he feels like he sticks out like a sore thumb, leather jacket and cool car among all the dorks. It's not true, of course, nobody pays him the slightest attention, which is disturbing in itself, as if in this place his existence isn't quite solid.   
  
Sam's solid, though. He moves through campus as if he was a part of the stone walls. People greet him, nod at him. Girls respond to him. He looks like College Boy incarnate, books under his arm, smiling, fresh-faced from the weak sun and the harsh autumn wind as he comes out of the building he's had class in. Dean watches him walk from a distance, talking to a dorky-looking brunette girl with glasses. He's smiling. Dean feels something in his gut wrench.   
  
It takes all of two minutes for Sam to notice that Dean's watching, of course. He turns, and waves at Dean, his smile fading. The brunette turns with him and barely acknowledges Dean with her eyes before walking away, touching Sam briefly on the shoulder. Sam nods at her and says something Dean's too far away to hear. She turns briefly and gives Sam a two-fingered salute. He laughs. Dean feels a sudden, white-hot rage in his gut against this girl, against Sam's easy smile, the ancient, red-yellow trees in the courtyard, the bench he's sitting on.  
  
Sam comes towards Dean, alone now. Figures. Sam never introduces Dean to his friends. Dean never felt that as a particular loss. More of Sam for him when he's here. But he would really like to know who this girl is, why she looked at him like that. What had Sam told her about Dean, about himself, about their family, their life? How much of Sam she knows. How much of Sam Stanford knows.   
  
Two steps from the bench, Sam stops and looks at Dean contemplatively. "You look like you swallowed a stone column."  
  
Dean smirks. For fuck's sake, why can't he ever stay angry with the little shit. _Because it's not his fault,_ his brain supplies. Obviously. But that's not true, entirely. It _is_ Sam's fault. How dare he go get a life of which Dean's only a fringe benefit?   
  
Sam smiles back briefly, then nods at the packed bag next to Dean on the bench.   
  
"So I guess you're leaving?" His voice is neutral, unreadable, something Dean's not used to. He could always read Sam like a book, but now Sam's pretty much closed. Arms hugging his books to his chest, expression neutral. Jacket zipped to the neck. The wind is tugging at his hair and his clothes, but Sam gives it as few points of attack as possible.   
  
Dean nods, briefly. "Yeah." There's little else to say. Another job, another town, another meaningless goodbye.   
  
"I'll probably be around the area again in a few weeks, though, so..." he lets the sentence hang in the air. What he means to say is that he'll visit around Thanksgiving, which of course Sam will spend in College, since he has no home to go to. But he doesn't want to promise something he might not be able to keep.  
  
Dean's self-invitation kind of hangs in the air between them, uncomfortable, and for a few moments, Sam says nothing, eyes trained intently on Dean's old, worn-out boots. The rustling of the fallen leaves against the stone pavement is astoundingly loud, a so distinctly autumn sound that Dean automatically draws his jacket closer, even though it's not all that cold. The sound kept Dean awake half the night, or at least that's what he blamed it on in the morning, well, that and the very hard floor in Sam's dorm room.  
  
Slowly, Sam's gaze wanders up Dean's body, and Dean feels the path Sam's eyes take as if they were fingers grazing his skin. It makes him uncomfortable, the way he doesn't know anymore what anything means. It's been three months. That night in the desert was the last time Sam's really actually touched him for anything more than a brotherly pat on the back and a few minimal body contact hugs. He's been here three times, and every time he sleeps on the floor, even though he knows that Sam watches him at night, even though he watches Sam all the time.   
  
Sam's eyes reach Dean's face, and Dean sees the punch lurk there.   
  
"Look, about that..."Sam's sentence hangs there, half-assed answer to Dean's half-assed question.   
  
"What?" Dean asks, suddenly somehow pissed, because Sam is uncomfortable and he doesn't know why, because Sam has this defensive posture that Dean hates to see, and because Sam hasn't sat down and people are looking at them.   
  
"What about it? You've got plans for Thanksgiving already?" And just like that, Dean's scared out of his fucking wits that Sam will say yes, actually, Dorky Glasses Girl has invited me to her parents' house. Or yes, actually, I've got a job and have to work, or anything else that reveals the depth of how little Dean actually knows about Sam's life here.   
  
For an intense moment, Sam says nothing. Then he shakes his head and Dean breathes again. "No. It's just..." he sighs. "Look, you got a bit of time before you have to leave?"  
  
Dean nods. He thinks he'd say yes to anything that Sam could possibly ask right now, just so that tight feeling in his chest will go away.   
  
Sam smiles tightly, tension visible in every muscle of his body. "Come on, then."  
  
Sam leads the way, and Dean follows. Strangely enough, Sam leads him to the Impala, holds out his hand wordlessly. Dean hands over the keys without protest, and Sam backs them out of the college parking lot.   
  
Dean's surprised when Sam drives through the College gates, leaves Campus behind, doesn't drive into Palo Alto. He turns into the lane that leads to the Interstate, and Dean makes a questioning noise, but doesn't press his luck when Sam ignores him, staring intently at the road.   
  
They drive for about 25 minutes and when they arrive, Dean thinks he might have guessed. And then, he might have not.   
  
The beach is empty. It's October, so the wind is even colder here than it was in Stanford. Seagulls cry in the distance. There's a small restaurant a few miles down the beach; Dean can smell grilled fish.   
  
They get out of the car, and Dean goes towards the ocean like iron to a magnet. It's magnificent. Dark and wild, waves crashing almost violently against the sandy-soft beach, the wind whipping at the water as if the water had something the wind desperately wants. Dean can sort of empathise.   
  
This is good. The salt in the air, the spray of cold water in his face. No people for miles, only the brutal force of nature. This is Dean's world. He feels solid here, heavy boots sinking a bit into the sand. This is something he can deal with; he draws strength from the ocean, from the wild cries of the seagulls.   
  
He looks over at Sam, who's sat down on the sand, knees half drawn up, eyes searching the horizon. Sam loves the ocean, too, Dean knows, but Sam loves the mystery, the riddles, the endless contemplative material of the sea, while Dean loves the immediacy, the unarguableness of the ocean. If the ocean wants to go somewhere, it'll get there sooner or later. Just you wait.  
  
Dean understands now why Sam brought them here, neutral territory.   
  
He sits next to Sam. Sam doesn't look at him. The ocean brings out the grey in his eyes. "So..."  
  
Sam doesn't move or make a sound, but Dean sees his chest heave, like he's taking a heavy breath Dean just can't hear over the roar of the ocean. Finally, Sam turns to him.   
  
"So." There's some kind of struggle going on here and Dean vaguely realises that. But he doesn't know which part of Sam he's supposed to be fighting for.   
  
"Where are you going?" Sam asks, his voice a bit rough, as if the words he just formed weren't exactly the ones he wanted to say.  
  
Dean shrugs. "There's this big-ass haunting going on somewhere outside of Albuquerque. A whole street-block or something. Dad wasn't very precise."  
  
Sam snorts. "He never is."   
  
A short pause. Dean can't resist. "You know, we can always use an extra hand, and Dad..."  
  
Sam stops him. "How many times have we had this conversation?" he asks, and his voice suddenly sounds so grown-up, so mature. Not at all like Dean's baby brother. Like a man who knows what he wants, or at least what he doesn't want.   
  
Dean sighs. "About a million times."  
  
"And it always ends the same," Sam murmurs, and there he is again, Dean's baby brother, sulking.   
  
Drawing his fingers through his spray-wet hair, Dean says nothing.   
  
Next to him, Sam heaves a heavy sigh. "Why do you come here, Dean?" he asks, and there's more than a little exhaustion in his voice. Sam meets his eyes, and for a moment, Dean can't remember any words at all at the turbulence he sees there. So much older than he should look.  
  
Dean shakes his head. "I visit," he finally says, his voice sounding none too steady.   
  
Sam just looks at him, says nothing. Lets Dean draw the conclusion.   
  
The words are maybe the most difficult Dean's ever said in his life. "Would you rather I didn't?"  
  
Sam swallows, and there's that look, the one Sam used to get for their worst cases, the people they couldn't help, the people he knew he had to hurt. He holds Dean's eyes, though, and Dean gives him credit for more courage than Dean's ever had in his life.   
  
"Yes," he whispers.  
  
It hurts more than Dean thought it would. He can't look away from Sam's eyes, though, dark like the ocean and filled with such regret.   
  
"Why?" he asks, wondering where he finds his voice.  
  
"Because we always end up here," Sam says, and his voice sounds firmer now, as if he was finding his conviction.   
  
Dean knows he's right. He's been here three times and every time leaving Sam here hurts a bit more. If he's entirely honest with himself, he comes here because he hopes that one of these days Sam won't be able to let him go and will come back with him. But so far Sam's been stronger than that. He's beginning to suspect that it's not going to change anytime soon.  
Not seeing Sam at all, though. It's all but unthinkable. Sam's all he has. His only friend. The only thing of any true importance in the world. Dean's so scared that without Sam he'll turn into some mindless, soulless drifter without roots and without anyone who actually sees him as who he really is.   
  
"Dean," Sam whispers his name as if it's a holy word, a spell, and Dean's as bound now, as he'll always be. "Please."   
  
It's just one word, but it hits Dean with the force of a sledgehammer, and Dean knows that this time, it's on him to make a decision. Sam won't forbid him to come. Won't shut the door in his face, won't kick him out, won't ignore his calls. What he's asking now from Dean is not to call in the first place.   
  
_Ask something else, anything,_ Dean thinks. _Ask me to give up hunting, ask me to flatten the Rocky Mountains, ask me to put the fucking Mount St. Helens out._  
  
Sam won't. Sam's asked Dean for one thing, one thing only. _Let me go._  
  
Dean knows in his heart that from now on until the day he dies he won't ever be able to do that. It's the most selfish thing he can possibly do, but he truly believes that he's physically incapable. But he's also incapable of clearly seeing what Sam needs and not giving it to him. Sam needs for Dean to take a firm line and stick to it. Sam needs for Dean to fake it. So Dean looks out at the ocean, takes a deep breath. Then he looks at Sam, lanky form, laid out on the beach. And he nods.   
  
The gratitude and relief in Sam's eyes is hard to stand.   
  
He has to get out of here. It's all too much now, Sam's quiet presence beside him, teasing him, like the last shot of a heroin addict. He gets up.   
  
"Come on, I'll drive you back to school. I gotta be in New Mexico tomorrow morning."  
  
Sam gets up as well, stuffs his hands in his pocket, as if he doesn't know what to do with them. "It's all right, there's a bus I can get, it stops at the restaurant."  
  
Dean nods, in automatic mode. All he wants is to get away from here. He turns and starts to walk away, but strong hands grab him, turn him around, pull him in and then Sam's lips are on his, Sam's taste is on his tongue, Sam's fingers are in his hair, and he melts, sinks, breaks open under Sam's fingers, feels like his entire being is being pulled out and caressed for a wordless, soundless, excruciating last time.  
  
Sam lets go of Dean and before Dean knows what's happening, he's walking to his car, putting the key into the ignition, driving away, his eyes always on the man who is his brother on the beach, tall and thin and alone. And all Dean can think is that Sam's finally done something that Dean's not sure he'll be able to forgive, ever.  
  
*-*  
 


	2. Chapter 2 - Winter

*-*  
  
Winter  
  
Dean wakes up with a start, then sighs when he recognizes the signs, realizes what exactly woke him.  
  
He can almost count it down from ten. The gasping starts, then the thrashing, then Sam screams. Sometimes it's Jess' name. Sometimes he screams for their mother. This time, even more chilling, he screams for Dean. And Dean's there, soothes the hair back from his forehead like when they were kids and Sam was sick. Dean calms him down until the mindless, depthless fear fades from his eyes. Sam doesn't let go of his death grip of Dean, though, and Dean lets him hold on, knowing that Sam needs his presence right now to ward off whatever put that look into his eyes, that broken open, naked terror.  
  
It figures, of course. If Dean knows one thing for sure, it's that life's a fucking bitch, always extracting a price for everything. Life gave Sam back to Dean. But not graciously, not smiling, not happily. Not out of free will. No, life chewed his brother up thoroughly, and when it was done spit the remains at Dean's feet, battered and bruised, shadows in his eyes and smelling of smoke.   
  
But he's alive. And he's here. And it's the worst hell Dean's ever been through. Even worse than missing Sam when he was gone, and needing him when he couldn't _have_ him in any sense of the word. Now Sam barely leaves his side, but he's a brooding half-presence, his mind on the past and the future, while Dean lingers in the now.   
  
Sam's a Winchester, though, and it shows. He's hard as nails and stubborn as hell and he can take about anything life throws at him. It doesn't run off him like water, it leaves scars and marks and dark shadows under his eyes, but he's still here, and he refuses to give up. It's what Dean admires most about Sam, his complete inability to accept defeat.  
  
With a deep breath that's almost a sigh, Sam finally lets go of Dean and draws back. It's very bright in the room, and almost freezing cold. December has caught up with them in Wisconsin, and the heat in their hotel room is broken. Sam looks at Dean, the moonlight washing the colour out of him like dried leaves in autumn. He's pale by daylight, but now he looks like a ghost, unreal.   
  
"I don't think I can go back to sleep," he whispers, his lips look blue in the pale night.  
  
Dean swallows. _Please don't ask me to stay here with you,_ he prays. He knows he won't say no. He knows it's the worst idea ever. No way he can spend a night in bed with Sam and not... do something. And he's pretty sure that's not exactly part of the 'normal' thing Sam tries for nowadays.  
  
Instead, Sam reaches up and around him and turns on the light. "There's a 7-11 around the corner. You think they've got Cheerios and milk?"  
  
And suddenly, Sam is five years old and Dean is nine, and all that matters is making Sammy feel safe. "Let's find out."  
  
And then Sam gets up, the sheets sliding from his body, and Dean's 27 again and can't stop looking.  
  
Sam grabs a shirt and pulls it over his head, then throws another at Dean.   
  
"You'll need more clothes than this," Sam says, and he smiles at Dean through the gaps of the lingering nightmare.  
  
Oh Jesus, that smile. It makes Dean want to howl in frustration, to throw himself at him, beg. _Please for the love of God do something, anything, to make this go away. Stop being so fucking undaunted, so fucking beautiful._ 'Cause Dean's used to some heavily fucked-up shit, but hell, if this isn't the sickest thing ever. Two years, not a word, not a touch, and Dean has to face the facts finally. He, Dean Winchester, is a lost fucking cause.   
  
Maybe there's a support group for people like him. _Hi, I'm Dean, and I'm hopelessly in love with my kid brother._  
  
It would be funny if it weren't the truth.  
  
If any of the bitterness almost choking Dean shows on his face, Sam doesn't remark on it, he pulls up his jeans. Dean only now realizes that he's clutching his shirt between white knuckles, and pulls it over his head. They dress quickly and quietly, and Sam pockets the gun Dean hands him without hesitation. A few weeks ago he would've argued. Dean finds it oddly satisfying to see how fast normal washes out of Sam, like a bad dye job.   
  
The cold hits Dean like a slap when they step outside. It was chilly in the room, but outside it's freezing. Every surface is covered with snow or glittering patches of ice. Two streetlights have gone out, but the moon reflecting on the white winter gloss everywhere makes the night almost too bright after the dim lamplight of their room.  
  
They walk silently, the snow crunching under their feet the only sound in the oddly quiet night. It must be past 3 in the morning, and not even late night drunks are out. They hear wood crack with the cold, but the snow muffles all sounds of human origin, even their breathing.  
  
The 7/11 is small and not particularly well stocked, but it's got what they need. Sam hits the cereal aisle, and Dean goes for the milk and the freezer bags.  
  
The cashier gives them a weird look at their compilation, but doesn't say anything, just hands them a few plastic spoons when they ask for them.  
  
Outside, the yellow lamplight makes the night seem small. It's started to snow again, and it's even quieter than before. The moon's slowly setting.   
  
Dean turns towards their motel, but Sam's hand on his arm stops him. "Let's walk for a bit?"  
  
Dean nods. Fine by him. Their room is too small to contain his confusion anyway.  
  
They walk, effortlessly accommodating each other in their mutual silence. They were always good at that. It's the talking that usually gets them into trouble.  
  
When they pass by a bus stop with a roofed over bench, they sit down by silent consent, years of hunting together made them fluent in each others' body language. Right now Dean can tell that Sam is tense, scared and hungry.   
  
Dean breaks open the freezer bags. They work together smoothly, Sam pouring cereals and milk into the bags Dean holds open, sugar follows, then Sam hands Dean a spoon and they eat out of the bags. They've done this a million times, when they were kids, teenagers, adults, on backseats of cars, on the side of roads, in dirty hotel rooms.   
  
"I was always late for breakfast in Stanford," Sam says around a mouthful of cereal. "You can't imagine the looks I got in the cafeteria when I took my cereal with me to class like this."  
  
Dean just nods, trying not to let the bitter taste in his mouth sour his enjoyment of the Cheerios. He doesn't particularly enjoy it when Sam talks about college. To him, Stanford is just a name Sam gave the big-ass chasm he's opened up between them, the one that will always be between 'before' and 'after'.   
  
Silence settles again, only this time it's got an uncomfortable edge to it. It's one of Sam's 'I've got something to say you don't want to hear' silences, and Dean's had damn well enough of those to last him a lifetime. He won't make this any easier on Sam than he has to, though. If Sam assumes he doesn't want to hear what Sam has to say, chances are he's right. Whatever their differences, however much they've changed, Sam _knows_ Dean right down to his bones, even if on the surface, they sometimes look like strangers.  
  
It's no use, though, because sometimes Sam's thoughts are like a steamroller, they just come out no matter what. People always think Sam's the quiet one, but that's really, really untrue.  
Sam opens his mouth, and Dean braces himself.   
  
"It's gonna be Christmas soon." It comes out softly, as if Sam didn't want to disturb the strange snowy silence around them.  
  
It's not what Dean expected Sam to say. "Yeah. So?" It's the only response he can think of.  
  
Sam shrugs. "Nothin'. Just, you know. I was thinking."  
  
It's an obvious cue for Dean to ask what Sam was thinking about. Dean hesitates for a moment. These conversations never end well. But he can see Sam watching him, and for once the walls are down. Maybe it's the nightmare, maybe it's simply exhaustion, but for once Sam's not defensive, not hiding behind grief, resentment and a barely contained impatience. For once, Sam seems to be actually here, with Dean, not stuck in regretting the past and wishing for the future. So Dean asks.   
  
"What were you thinking about?"  
  
Sam smiles. It's a small, private smile, one that looks like it's been invented for Dean and Dean alone, and it hits Dean in all the wrong places, scrapes over scars.   
  
"That one Christmas in Dayton, five years ago. Remember? Dad told us to spend the night in this haunted house after we'd exorcised it while he went after something or other, but we stole a bottle of his Tequila and just drove around?"  
  
Remember? Oh does Dean ever. It was one of the very few times that Sam got him to disobey Dad. It's Christmas, he'd said. Don't we deserve a break? And he'd given Dean that smile, and Dean had relented, and they got into the Impala and drove away from the orders their father had given them. They stopped somewhere in the middle of nowhere, drank Tequila and fucked in the backseat of the car. Slow, and warm, and good. It was the best fucking Christmas since Mom's death.   
  
If there's any doubt in his mind about whether Sam ever thinks about what they were, what they had, it's laid to rest by the expression in his eyes when he looks at Dean. There's so much there that Dean wants, desperately, to lose himself in, but there's also something there that clearly says, 'No Trespassing'.   
  
In moments like this it's difficult to remember that he doesn't actually hate Sam. He knows intellectually that Sam doesn't want to hurt him, that Sam's doing the entirely reasonable thing by keeping his distance and that Dean's not given him any indication that he'd be welcome if he made the first move. But it's so, so difficult to resist kissing him right now, when it's written clearly all over Sam's features that he wouldn't say no, but it's also difficult not to see the huge strings attached to Sam's yes. More than anything Dean doesn't want to go through all of this again. More than anything he wishes they could go back to how they were before.   
  
Sam smiles wistfully and turns back to his cereal, and the moment breaks, and Dean feels his resentment rise like bile. He wants to say something nasty, wants to lash out and hurt Sam the way he's hurting, but his mind is blank, and the savage impulse fades when he sees Sam staring forlornly into his cereal as if he was the one hurting. Dean reminds himself once more that Sam's lost a great deal more than Dean ever had. Hope, for one.   
  
Dean takes a bite of his by now too cold cereal. The cold hurts his teeth. He feels every single one of his formerly broken bones. Smirking into his cereal, he looks over at Sam. "You ever feel old?"  
  
Sam snorts. "Every goddamned day. Especially when it rains."  
  
Dean smiles at how Sam knows exactly what Dean means. It's more than broken bones, though. He feels their history weighing them down with an age neither of them has, as if they've lived more than their years, or maybe they just crammed more living into them than normal people do.   
  
Sam's breath hitches, fogs in front of his face. "Last year I spent Christmas at Jess' parents'."  
  
It hits Dean directly in the guts. It's so far out of Dean's experience that he can't think of the slightest thing to say. He doesn't have to though; Sam keeps talking anyway, looking intently at his cereal.   
  
"She asked me about my folks and I kind of said that we don't do Christmas, which is true enough as far as it goes. So she invited me back with her folks, and I went."  
  
There's a small pause, and Dean wonders where this is going.   
  
Sam sighs. "I thought it'd be great, you know. A normal Christmas, with good food and, you know, family dinners and a tree and presents and so on. They had a turkey. And a really big tree. And they sang carols and stuff. It was so...weird."  
  
Dean looks up. It's not at all what he expected Sam to say.  
  
Smiling wistfully into his cereal, Sam continues, "They had this huge old house, and I swear, the lights flickered the whole damn time. So I stole a pound of salt from the kitchen and went to the basement and the attic in the middle of the night and purified the house."  
  
Dean's laugh takes even him by surprise. "You purified their house?" He feels some of the muscles he clenched, expecting one of Sam's 'what normal people do' speeches, relaxing.  
  
"You should've seen it, man, it was a spiritual disaster waiting to happen. The house was practically humming with energy," Sam says, and the defensiveness in his tone amuses Dean even more.  
  
"Dude, way to go!" Dean's voice contains a world of amusement.   
  
Sam's smile flashes, brief and without energy. "Then I went back upstairs and stared at my cell phone for about an hour, until Jess woke up and told me to call you already."  
  
All amusement is gone like it never existed, and Dean's voice is none too steady when he asks, "And did you?"  
  
Sam nods. "Yeah. I did." His voice is dry and raw, and very quiet. "I got your voicemail. I was too much of a coward to leave a message."  
  
_But you called,_ Dean thinks. _You called because she told you to._   
  
Dean knows that, had she lived, he couldn't have helped hating Jessica and everything she represented. She was what Sam chose over him, she was the one laying claim on Sam, and Dean felt nothing but raw jealousy and hatred for the living Jessica, who touched so freely what Dean thought and still thinks of as _his_. But in death she has become a victim, and Dean's resentment lost its fire with her loosening hold on Sam. But he doesn't want to have to owe her anything. And for that alone he's glad that he didn't answer the phone when it rang through the alcoholic haze he remembers as last Christmas.   
  
_Why are you telling me this?_ Dean thinks. _Why now?_  
  
And then something clicks. The nightmare. "Did you dream about me?" he asks.  
  
Sam looks up, memory of terror in his eyes, and nods. "Yeah. And I..." He pauses, obviously groping for words. "I wanted you to know that it wasn't because of you. None of it."  
  
Dean tries for something to say and can't come up with anything that isn't resentful and ugly and ripping his chest open, asking for Sam to take out whatever he wants. Because he already knew that. He always knew that. It doesn't change a fucking thing, though. Because Sam left anyway. In a way, it even makes it worse, because if Sam had to leave Dean, it would've been easier to bear if it'd actually been about him. It would be easier to bear when Sam looks at him like this because then he'd know that it doesn't work, and he'd remember why it didn't work. Not that while their life was sometimes crap, _they_ were good, they were so damned good together it made everything better. If it'd been _them_ and not everything else, it'd be easier to be angry at Sam, easier to pretend that he doesn't want Sam back, easier to find a reason not to try and _get_ him back. It'd be easier to pretend that he doesn't wish, hope for Sam to reach out through all the bullshit Dean puts up as defence and just _take_ Dean back, no questions asked.  
  
Sam looks at Dean, and for a second Dean sees something flicker there, something like temptation, something like an easy way out. But then that flicker dies and Sam's eyes lower away from Dean, settle in the snowflakes falling in the middle distance. "Let's go back, I'm cold."  
  
Dean nods, only now noticing how stiff his hands are, finally realizing that the cold he's feeling doesn't all come from inside.  
  
They walk back without talking. Exhaustion hits Dean heavily, and he remembers that it's the middle of the night and that he was woken from sleep some time ago.  
  
Their room is still cold, but compared to outside only mildly chilly. Still they undress quickly and lie down in their separate beds without so much as looking at each other.   
  
Dean lies awake under the covers until dawn, shivering, waiting for Sam to fall asleep, knowing Sam won't come to him, afraid that he will, hoping he will. He finally falls asleep when Sam does, after sunrise, cold to the bone and no hope of getting warm again.  
  
*-*  
 


	3. Chapter 3 - Spring

Spring  
  
Just when Dean thinks that life can't possibly get any worse it starts raining.   
  
It's good rain, though. Fresh and clean, and not too cold. Spring rain that makes the air smell like earth and green.   
  
Half an hour ago, Dean would've cursed the rain. Now he thinks it's maybe the high point of his night. It washes the smell of smoke out of his hair, takes away the sting of the antiseptic on the cuts on his face.  
  
It may also be because half an hour ago, Dean wasn't as drunk as he is now. The cheap Scotch he bought at a gas station hits hard and fast on Dean's empty stomach, its burning complements his bitterness perfectly.  
  
Drinking and walking is getting to be too much for him, so he sits down on a bench and leans his head back, lets the rain drip on his face, closes his eyes. Maybe the rain will wash this day away. This week. This year. The last five years. Or better yet, the last twenty.   
  
Dean sometimes thinks that the most fucked-up shit in his life is how far removed from control he is. The deaths he can't prevent, the broken things he can't fix and the bad things that just keep happening to people no matter how fast he drives or how much they work. And there is also Dad and Sam, neither of whom Dean has ever had any power over and both of whom command him with an ease he finds frightening.   
  
Dad just left. And Dean pretended to let him. Pretended like there was actually anything he could do to make him stay. Pretended he'd wanted him to stay.   
  
At least Dad has made his peace with Sam, however superficial. Something Dean's not sure he'll achieve, ever. He's not even sure if he wants to.   
  
He takes another deep sip of the Scotch. His head is already slightly fuzzy. Hopefully soon, he'll be able to stop thinking. The quiet he needs so badly will settle inside his skull and will take away the thousand scenarios his mind presents him with how he could have handled recent events better.   
  
He shouldn't have fallen into that obvious trap. He should've listened to Sam when he said that Meg was fishy. He shouldn't have lost his shit so completely with Sam.   
  
Should of, would of, could of. Still. Stupid. Incredibly stupid.  
  
He should've known Sam would be honest and straightforward and say a whole lot of shit Dean never wanted to hear. _But you asked for it, you stupid fuck,_ he answers himself silently.   
  
And it's nothing Dean didn't already know.   
  
_When this is over, you've got to let me go my own way._  
  
If only things were that easy, Sammy. It's never going to be over. The only difference between this demon and all the other evil shit they're hunting is that this one hurt them personally. So fucking what. As far as he's concerned, that doesn't make a whole stinkin' lot of difference.  
  
It does to Sam, though. And not even because of Mom, but because of Jessica, because he couldn't save her and thinks revenge will bring him some semblance of peace. Dean doesn't look forward to Sam finally realizing that killing this demon won't make any difference at all. He'll still never be normal again. As if he ever was.   
  
It's beyond Dean why somebody as extraordinary as Sam even wants to be ordinary. Nine-to-five job, 2.5 kids, white picket fence, soccer practice, church picnics, bad TV and PTA meetings, bills and chores and dull, numb sameness until death in a retirement home, a plastic tube sticking out of every orifice.   
Fuck that. Better to hunt and know danger and fear, yes, but also the exhilaration of snatching people back from death, of killing evil, of making a difference.  
  
Sam will never fit into the colorless life of suburban boredom. He's like Dean. Burning with life and energy and emotion, wholly unique and extraordinary. He'll never fit into a life that's too small to contain him. Whether he wants to or not, he's stuck being a freak, a Winchester. He belongs to Dean's world. He belongs to _Dean_.  
  
Only he doesn't. He's made it painfully clear that he doesn't. He belongs to himself, and goddamn him, he's going to take himself away from Dean once again, no matter how tightly Dean grips at him. He'll struggle free once more and leave Dean to whatever fate he chooses.   
  
Damn the fucking selfish bastard. He always left the hard part to Dean.  
  
The rain grows heavier, and Dean's clothes begin to stick to his skin. Not even the alcohol can take the cold sting out of the spring night, and Dean shivers quietly into his leather jacket. Maybe he should go back.  
  
The alcohol has numbed him so far that he's sure he can even take Sam's judgmental bullshit. It's better than the shit he'll give Dean if he catches pneumonia, anyway.  
  
Half blind with the rain and the Scotch, Dean stumbles in the general direction of their motel. He finds their small bungalow by sheer luck and because he'd recognise the Impala through a snowstorm with his eyes closed.  
  
Inside, it's dry and warm. It does unsurprisingly little to sober Dean up.  
  
Sam looks up from where he's sitting on the bed, the three red cuts on his face glaring angry red. "Where were you?" he demands, his tone more than a little pissed.   
  
Dean shrugs. "Out," he half-slurs, gesturing towards the door he just entered through.   
  
For a moment, Sam just looks at him. "Are you drunk?" he asks then, slightly incredulous.  
  
Dean nods. "Yep. Pretty much."  
  
Sam gets up from the bed and approaches Dean. "Great. As if we didn't have enough problems."  
  
It's a deliberate attempt to make Dean pissy, Dean knows that. It works, too.   
  
"The world won't end just because I took the night off," he says, more reasonable than he thinks can really be expected of him under the circumstances.   
  
Sam sighs and reaches out to Dean.   
  
"Come on." His fingers are gentle on Dean's shoulders, peeling the leather jacket off. Dean hates him for making his resentment die so quickly, but he goes willingly, pliant under Sam's hands as they take off his jacket and push him to sit on his bed.   
  
Sam reaches for Dean's shirt but Dean is way too drunk and not drunk enough by half to go down the slippery slope of having Sam's hands on his naked, wet skin.   
  
"I can manage, thank you." Goddamn Sam and his self-righteous eye-roll.  
  
"All right, have it your way. Next time maybe warn me when you go off to get stinking drunk, though. I was worried," Sam says, crouching down next to the bed.   
  
Dean gives Sam a drunken smirk. "Yeah, well, I'm old enough to take care of myself. I appreciate the sentiment, though."  
  
Sam's hands are at his feet, lifting his ankle, untying the shoelaces of his heavy combat boots.   
  
"Well, you're all I've got now, aren't you? You're an idiot, but you're my idiot." Sam's tone is casual, and the expression in his eyes is exasperatedly affectionate, but his words hit Dean like a sledgehammer, make him dizzy.  
  
"Yeah," he murmurs, barely aware that he's even speaking. "I'm idiot enough to still be in love with you."  
  
Sam's hands on his ankle freeze. Sam's entire body seems to stop in shock. Only his eyes move, to Dean's face, searching. " _What?_ "  
  
_Oh, shit,_ Dean thinks. "Nothin'," he says, lamely, trying to cover. He pulls his ankle out of Sam's grasp and gets up from the bed. "I forgot something in the car."  
  
He stumbles out the door quickly. It's raining heavily by now, and every drop feels like cool fingers caressing Dean's skin when he steps outside. Calming and refreshing, sobering him up efficiently. Oh God, how stupid.  
  
The door opens and closes behind him once more and he starts walking towards the car.   
  
"You're _what_?" Sam has to yell for Dean to hear him over the pat-pat-pat of the rain on the concrete and the shining hood of the Impala.  
  
Dean sighs. "Nothing. It's nothing. Forget I said anything," he answers without turning around, taking another few steps towards the car.  
  
Strong hands grip him, turn him, and haul him bodily against the brick wall of their small bungalow. Sam's in his space, in his face, hands fisting in Dean's clothes, eyes flashing, hair sticking to his head from the rain.   
  
"You're _what_?" Sam says, and this time Dean knows there's no denying him, no escaping except with brute physical force. As if Dean wanted to escape.   
  
Time to put the cards on the table and let fate have its way. It's not like he has anything to lose. He swallows. "I'm still..."  
  
He doesn't come further, because Sam's lips eat the words from his, Sam's tongue strokes them from him, and Dean automatically opens his mouth and accepts, takes back what is his, what might just have been his for the taking all along. It's like completing a movement they've begun the very day Sam got into the Impala with him back in November, inevitable and inescapable, like the tides. His hand fists in Sam's hair, Sam's fingers clutch at his hips, pull him closer. Sam tastes of rain and coffee and himself, new and spicy and achingly, deeply familiar. Sam's body radiates heat through both their wet shirts, a heat Dean wants to taste and touch and lose himself in. His fingers find their way underneath Sam's shirt, touch warm, wet skin. Sam's moan into his mouth is a gift, Sam's growing hardness against him a heady promise. Dean can feel his own erection pressing painfully against his jeans, his entire body feels alive and highwired.   
  
He pulls back from the kiss and promptly hits his head on the brick wall. It brings him to some semblance of sense.   
  
"Sam," he almost gasps, but Sam doesn't listen, he kisses down Dean's neck, traces the path of raindrops on his skin with his tongue.   
  
"Sam," Dean says again, more forcefully this time, barely biting back a moan when Sam's teeth find the sensitive skin on Dean's neck. The little shit knows him too well.  
  
"Sam," Dean tries it a third time, pulling Sam up by his hair to look into his eyes.  
  
" _Now_ you want to talk?" Sam asks, smirking, his tone half amused, half exasperated.  
  
Dean's not amused. "I can't..." he sighs. Fuck, he sounds like a girl. But this is too important to dick around about it. He'll be goddamned if he goes through all this shit again.   
  
"Only do this if you mean it," he adds, knowing it sounds lame after he stuck his tongue down Sam's throat as far as it'll go.  
  
Sam looks at him, long and quiet. His eyes hold a world of emotion.   
  
"Whatever gives you the idea that I don't mean it?" he asks, slowly. "You think this is a game to me? You think I'd do that to you, or to myself?"  
  
Dean shakes his head. "You said you didn't want it to be like it was before," he answers. God fucking damn it he sounds like a fucking woman.   
  
"Well, do you? Blow jobs in bathrooms with Dad asleep next door?" Sam asks, incredulous.   
  
Dean opens his mouth to say something, but Sam just brushes his lips against Dean's, every breath a teasing kiss, whispering, "Just do yourself a favor and shut up."  
  
That's good enough for now. His grip in Sam's hair tightens as he holds Sam close and ravages his mouth, exploring, mapping every change of taste, of texture, and Sam gives as good as he gets, hands roaming Dean's body, grabbing his hips, squeezing his ass. Sam's hands on his skin, his lips, his taste, all make Dean crave more of Sam in every way possible. Hot, wet, sloppy, deep kisses, Dean's lips are wet from rain and Sam and there won't ever be enough kissing, enough of Sam's taste and smell and feel against him, his skin under Dean's fingers. Only he wants more skin, now, and he wants more taste, now. He pushes Sam's shirt up farther to reach more skin, but Sam draws back, silences Dean's protest with a finger over his lips and moves him towards their room. One step at a time, his hands not moving from Dean's hips as if he's afraid that Dean will slip through his fingers if he let go. As if Sam could get rid of Dean if he tried.  
  
Neither of them bother with the lights when they enter the room. Sam kicks the door shut and pushes Dean back towards his bed, tumbles him down to the mattress, and Dean pulls him along until Sam's lying on top of him, stretched out, heavy, hot, ready to be plundered.   
  
There's a quick, almost violent pulling and tearing at clothes, then they're both naked, Sam's damp skin against Dean's. Sam's gasping moan when their erections slide against each other feels like a small electric shock jolting through Dean directly into his cock.   
  
Sam starts moving his hips reflexively, but Dean runs soothing hands down his back.   
  
"Easy, tiger," he whispers, and Sam's laugh is almost entirely air and very little sound.   
  
Sam leans down and kisses him, long, and deep. There's need there, yes, but patience, too, something Dean's never been very good at. He lets his hands roam freely over Sam's skin, retracing paths from memory, relearning what has changed since last they touched this way. A scar here, more muscle there, the shape and feel of Sam's ass, his thigh muscles, his stomach. Different and yet so very familiar, and Sam still reacts to every sensitive spot Dean's fingers remember, still feels the same as he quivers above Dean. The only thing that's really changed are his eyes, older, wiser, that much more foolish for being here again.   
  
Grabbing hold of Dean's wandering hands, Sam traps them over Dean's head and starts his own exploration with his lips, tongue and teeth. He licks droplets of rain off Dean's chest, circles a nipple with his tongue, sinks his teeth into sensitive flesh, proving that he too _remembers_ that they were here before, they know this room, they've walked this floor, they've been there and gone and back again. And there's so much history in every one of Sam's touches, so much body memory, so much visceral reaction to every single lick, kiss, bite, that Dean feels he might as well go insane. It's always been like this, this good, this intense, and when Sam brushes tender fingers over Dean's opening, a silent question, Dean can only push against him, towards him with his entire body for an answer.  
  
Sam bends down, mouths Dean's hipbone, licks a path down the trail of hair leading to his groin, and Dean grabs Sam's hand and shoves two fingers into his mouth, starts to lick and suck at them, nearly bites down when Sam's mouth closes around the head of his cock. The feeling's so intense he almost comes then and there, and it takes an enormous amount of willpower not to. He takes Sam's fingers out of his mouth.   
  
"For fuck's sake stop teasing, or this'll be very short." His voice is raw and quiet.  
  
Sam draws his tongue down the underside of Dean's cock, then laughs a teasing breath against the wetness, making Dean shiver.   
  
"I see you're still a really pushy bottom."  
  
"Shut up, smartass," Dean snarks back, not about to acknowledge Sam's upper hand.   
  
Sam shakes his head, smiling, and then he's back right where he belongs, half on top of Dean, kissing him, while one of his spit-moistened fingers circles Dean's opening. Slowly, gently, kissing along Dean's neck, chest, teasing his nipple, he pushes the finger inside, and Dean arches into the touch even though it's slightly uncomfortable. It's been a long time since anybody's had him like this.   
  
It's good, in spite of the slight burning, but Dean wants more. He pushes Sam downward by the shoulders. But Sam won't be hurried, he takes his time, bows his head down to use his tongue as well as his fingers to prepare Dean, to slick him open, and Dean feels on fire all over, like his skin will burst open any moment now, too small to contain him.   
  
Then the sensation is gone, and he feels Sam hovering over him, looking at him. Dean opens eyes he wasn't aware of closing and almost loses it for the hundredth time this night when he sees the expression in Sam's eyes, dark with want and so, so different from what they were. A grown man now, no longer a kid looking to Dean for guidance, but powerful, holding Dean entirely in his grasp as effortlessly as he always has, and Dean's nod is all the invitation he needs.   
  
Dean braces himself, holds on to Sam's shoulders as if life depended on not letting go, and Sam, guiding himself with one hand, slowly pushes inside. At first it feels like splitting open, but then Sam's mouth is on his and his hands grasp at Dean as if he was the only thing that's real. Dean breathes through the overwhelming, burning fullness, until discomfort fades and he feels small sparks exploding up and down his spine when Sam starts to move and hits his prostate. Unconsciously, he moves his hips, angles them into Sam's thrusts, and suddenly all thought is gone, only sensation remains. Only Sam's teeth on his neck, his hands clutching at Dean's sides, his voice in Dean's ear moaning his name, his cock making Dean's entire body light up with sparks of pleasure, all over.   
  
And then Sam wraps his hand around Dean's cock, and Dean gasps as pleasure spikes through him. Sam's thrusts become more determined, more forceful, his fingers around Dean's dick more demanding, and Dean's hands slip on Sam's skin, trying to find a hold. He forces himself to keep his eyes open, to watch Sam's face as he loses himself in their fucking, loses thought and worry and anything else that isn't here, now and Dean, and it's the most fucking beautiful thing Dean's ever seen in his life. Sam's trembling now, Dean can feel it in his entire body, and Dean puts his hands in Sam's hair, pulls him down for a sloppy kiss, and Sam's taste, the aroused, this-close taste of him makes Dean moan, drives him crazy. He moves his hips more forcefully, asks wordlessly for harder, faster, now. And Sam delivers, like he always did, sets a rhythm, hard, fast, pounds sense out of Dean entirely, frantic, sweat and rain dripping from his skin to Dean's. Sam shudders a breath-moan against Dean's skin, his hand tightening as if involuntarily on Dean's cock as he pushes inside with a forceful slam of his hips, and it's enough to make Dean's world go white, and bring Sam with him.  
  
Sam collapses on top of him, and Dean's hands find their way automatically into Sam's hair, down his back, soothing him, calming his own wild heartbeat with the hypnotic repetitiveness of his strokes. When they've both regained a semblance of control, Sam slips out of Dean's body, then settles down with his head on Dean's chest.   
  
Silence settles. The rain splatters against their windows, a calming sound that almost lulls Dean to sleep.  
  
But then Sam moves, props his head up on his elbow and looks at Dean, fingers tracing over Dean's cheekbones, his nose, his eyebrows, carefully over the angry red gashes on his forehead, down his neck.   
  
"What am I going to do with you?" he whispers, and Dean can see the genuine confusion behind the affectionately exasperated tone.  
  
_This,_ Dean thinks. _Please this, always this, the rest will sort itself out._  
  
He doesn't say anything, though, just looks at Sam, knowing that anything he says now will be meaningless by morning.   
  
"I can't make any promises," Sam continues quietly when Dean doesn't answer.   
  
The rain's unusually loud in the stillness that's settled between them. Dean knows that Sam's expecting some kind of acknowledgement of the warning, some kind of sign that Dean's understood. Finally Dean nods.   
  
Maybe it's inevitable that no matter how far they move apart, they always end up here again. And maybe it isn't. Nothing's changed. Nothing's different than it was yesterday, and yet everything's different, feels different, smells different, somehow fresh and new and still familiar. He puts a hand on Sam's face, rubs his thumb over Sam's cheekbone.   
  
"We'll see," he whispers. "We'll see." Then he pulls Sam down for a kiss, and all complications melt away. All that matters is that Sam is here, now, with him, and that he tastes like sun, air, and earth, like spring rain and old wood, like home and adventure. Like long history that holds the seed of a new beginning.   
  
And maybe, just maybe, it'll be enough this time. He looks at Sam's eyes and knows that for now, it is.  
  
  
End.  
 


End file.
